Repayment
by MidnightInDecember
Summary: He's out of town for a few days, to 'take care of some business', that's all he's really told me... I started out in his bed, how did I end up in a closet? Matt's POV. Dark, but with humor to it, about his feelings for Mello. That'd be MattxMello. Oneshot


**This turned out darker than intended... when I first wrote it, it was more of a joke. Now, I don't know what you'd call it XD. It's poor pathetic Matt as we know him... and a slightly unpredictable Mello. Matt's POV. **

**It's a Matt/ Mello thing, and it's not supposed to be AU, but there are probably some holes in my trying to keep to the original story.**

**Disclaimer: do not own. Me? No. **

**Warnings: This is gonna be boy / boy (though people hardly warn for that one anymore.) and it's the language I like the most! The Matt / Mello language! Yay! Which includes words that begins with f and ends with uck. So you know! **

**Long, weird, and English is not my first language. **

**With all that said, enjoy! **

**Repayment **

He's out of town for a few days, to 'take care of some business', that's all he has really told me. Didn't bother to answer all my eager questions. Didn't even say where he was going. He would kick my ass if he knew I've read his text messages. He left his cellphone, so tough luck, pretty boy, your own fault. I couldn't resist. Nothing of importance there, anyway. He didn't get any message from some obscure individual that stated the name of some weird meeting place, or what he was gonna do, some dangerous mafia business where you go exchange kidnapped people for notebooks, or anything like that. Strangely enough. Whatever: all his big bad mob members are dead, anyway. But if it has nothing to do with that, then what the hell is it?

Where have you gone to, badass Barbie?

I shouldn't have done it, I know. Um, yeah, gotta respect his privacy. But hey, _he_ should have known better than to just leave his poor pet at home without telling it anything. I have no self respect and I refer to myself in third person and, wow, it gets better, as an animal. You see? Too late for me. Go, save yourself! Leave me!

Sheesh. Anyway, I keep myself occupied the first day by playing games and sleeping and smoking and playing some more games (uh, yeah) and by hacking into someone else's computer just ´cause I feel like it. Aw right, and then I sleep some more. And smoke. The only time I actually put the cigarette out is for the sleeping part. And I spend the day indoors. I've never really fancied going outside.

I manage to get through the day this way, which says a lot about the poor state my nonexistent life is in, but then falls the night. Yeah. Here comes the night.

I could always go out to, I don't know, drink and forget. Although, I don't wanna meet people, and anyway, drinking simply because I can't stand to be alone just feels too pathetic. So I stay at home, equally pathetic, but without people seeing me be it. I try to sleep, but since I slept from time to time during the day (wow, I'm dumb. I want a prize of some sort.), I'm absolutely not tired now. I just turn in my bed until I think I'm gonna go insane.

Actually, usually I like being up when it's dark. I mean, even though this is a big city, which means that it's the total opposite of quiet out there, it's a hell of a lot less people around, and that's nice. Well, and the dark itself is preferable to the sunlight. I got sensitive eyes. They can stare at screens, but they can't stand that real, burning, supports-all-life-on-earth- light. I just spend so little time outdoors, it's my own fault they're sensitive. Don't feel like doing anything about that right now. Am probably gonna get killed from this whole Kira business anyway.

However, this night, I wish I could just go to sleep. And not dream of him, I guess, but that lucky I'd never be. So I'd settle for some sleep. But I can't. After turning restlessly long enough – you spin me right round, baby, right round – and almost falling out of bed, I decide to stop risking my health and get up. It's no idea, it aint gonna work. When I'm up, I don't know what to do. I could play. I haven't finished my newest game yet. But hell, that's boring (oh no, you did not hear me say that, I did so not say that, fuck I must really be obsessed.) and not even I, with my overly active imagination (... no.) can think of anything else to waste my time with.

I even go so far as deciding to clean up our mess, Mello's and mine. Our apartment looks like shit and neither one of us usually minds. But I'm desperate. I don't know what Mello will do to me when he comes home and sees I've been touching his stuff, and I don't care. In the night, the hours are longer, and things you do don't always make sense. It might seem stupid in the morning, but you do them nonetheless.

It takes a few hours. A lot longer than I would ever have spent tidying weren't the night driving me crazy, and a lot shorter than I'd wanted it to. When I'm done, it's still not morning. I'm still not tired enough to collapse, which was my plan.

There are only three rooms in our apartment – and that's including the kitchen – so you can imagine the mess it had to be to take such a long time. I sleep in the living room, on the couch. I really don't mind. Wrong: I usually don't mind, as long as Mello is sleeping in the room next to me. Sometimes when I can't sleep I sneak into his room to listen to him breathing.

I know, I know. It's creepy. He's very cute when he sleeps. I'm not that much of a stalker that I sound like. I don't have to follow him around; he's always close to me anyway. Well, except for now, and I didn't follow him to his out of time business, right? Even though I really start to regret that.

After wandering through the apartment a few times like a lost soul (uh, yeah. Darkness and too much time on your hands can make anyone poetic.), before sitting down and trying to concentrate on something – a video game, my gameboy – but miserably failing and almost managing to set myself on fire by forgetting the lit cigarette between my fingers, I come to the conclusion that I, for the sake of my sanity, have to do something drastic. I've already been into his room and rummaged through his belongings, so there aint many laws left to break anyway. I haven't touched his chocolate stash – fuck, I feel low, but I don't want to die – and that, I'm not planning to, but there's another restricted area I have yet to enter. His bed.

His bed has got to be a hell of a lot more comfortable than my couch. I've never actually laid down on it, but I mean, obvious much. It's a king sized bed, too big for one person alone, and the mattress looks so soft. Only the best for Princess Charming. The covers are black, in satin, fuck my Mello is so gay. But that's probably only 'cause leather wouldn't have been that nice to sleep on.

So, I go into his room. Before I sit down, I poke at his bed. As if a silent alarm would go off and Mello would come bursting right through the window to crush me. Nothing of the sort happens, of course, and I frown at my own stupidity, or perhaps at my boldness. If Mello found this out, he'd get so fucking pissed. He'd kick my ass. No, worse: he'd at the very least threaten something as holy as my games, he might even smash one.

So why am I doing this?

Because he isn't here. There is no way he is gonna find out.

I sit down. It's weird, but I don't bother to feel scared. It's just...good, it feels good. And fuck yeah, it's comfortable, they came up with that word after having spent a night on this bed. While gently sliding my fingers over the black fabric, I realize this is the one and only place I'll be able to sleep. If not, I'll die of insomnia. The bed smells like Mello, and it feels like Mello. I can see him, picture him in my mind, lying here, his slender figure stretched out beneath the covers, sleeping and for once that doll face of his is looking relaxed. I've never dared to touch him during one of my creepy watchings, so I can only imagine how soft his skin must be.

The truth is, I haven't touched him since we were little. He's touched me, when he punches me, but yeah, that isn't the easiest time to enjoy his fingers on my skin. Well, okay, I did touch him when he'd blown himself up, but I was a little too caught up in the moment to truly enjoy it. A sick part of me really wants him to blow himself up more often.

No, I can't say that, I can't. I can't even joke about it. That was the fucking hardest time of my sad, sad life. I was so worried I could barely eat. The only reason I ate was because I knew he needed me.

Man, I'm so fucked up.

Anyway, I lie down. That I dare. I'm still lying on top of the covers, but I decide that, hey, if you're going to hell, it might as well be worth it. I crawl under the covers and bury my nose in his pillow, breathe in Mello, breathe out that suffocating loneliness.

I usually sleep in my boxers, but I can't possibly dress of while in Mello's bed, can I? Then a weird thought strikes me: why not?

So I take of my clothes, and throw them at the floor. I'm half naked and I'm lying in Mello's bed... and it feels damn fine! I close my eyes and shift around a bit, oh my god it's Mello's fucking bed, I wish he was here, I really really really do... but he's not. I want to slap myself, ´cause I'm scaring myself, I'm fucking desperate.

I love his smell, it's surrounding me. I think about him – oh, newsflash – but well, I think about him, and I want to touch myself. Well, no fucking way, not in his bed...

So I go out in the bathroom and pull my boxers down and I think about him, think about him, think about him, he's so pretty, so goddamn fucking sexy, while I look into the mirror without actually seeing myself. No, it's the golden haired beauty that haunts me, stares back at me, with those eyes of frozen glass, the infinity of the summer sky caught and preserved in that light blue color, his thin lips a smirk and then that scar, that makes him look prettier than ever, it does nothing but adds to his perfection, it makes him look dangerous and wild and living, so alive, and so broken, that skin, so white and soft, his arms are so lean to be so strong and there is elegance in the shape of his hands, in the form of his fingers, he has the grace of a cat in his movements. He is the unforgiving murderer, my first love, my reason to fall forever. So beautiful. He's so beautiful.

I'm so pitiful. I just can't believe he actually doesn't know.

When I've climaxed I take a shower, and then I go to bed – his bed – totally naked.

I dream of him. I want him to fuck me.

* * *

"Matt?"

That voice... yep, that voice. I decide that I must be dreaming and smile to myself. For I know whose voice it is, and at the same time that I come up with the name, I realize that I should be very thankful that it's a dream, because otherwise, I'd be fucking dead. Ooh, nightmare. Thank you, subconsciousness. You're a sick one, and I really don't know why you're pestering me this way, but at least it's not real.

'Cause it's Mello's voice. It's the hot ass blond bombshell's voice. But it's just a dream, so my young life doesn't end here.

That's when something that feels alarmingly similar to a slap from the real world hits me. I grunt something like 'Ouch!' in the same moment that I am hit by a terrifying suspicion.

This... might not be a dream.

"Matt?" says the voice again.

No, no, no. It'd have to be a dream; fate can't be so cruel. Or some higher power somewhere must be laughing its ass off right now.

Everything feels a little too real, the mattress against my back, the cover over me in its softness, that's still a little too hot, the warmth in the air from some sun somewhere that must be shining through the window. I can smell it, it makes sounds. It's a little too specific and logical to be a dream. The world is too big for it to be inside my sick little mind.

I'm so dead.

"Uh," I say, not even smart enough to pretend to be asleep.

This is not a dream, huh?

I'm in his bed. No shit. Well, that's kinda obvious. Why the fuck did he say 'a few days' if he's planning on coming home the next morning? Okay, he said it 'cause he didn't know how long he'd be gone, it's not a very specific time, no. But... I do not want to die. This would probably be the best way, but still, negative.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asks.

Maybe he'll await an explanation, or skip it and get right to the killing part. Whatever it is, I don't dare to look at him. I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I work after the refreshing principle: what you can't see, isn't there. If it is there, at least it can't see you. If it can, just pray.

"Don't ignore me, bastard."

Is that what he thinks I'm doing? I'm praying for my life here! The least you could ask for is a bit of comprehension.

In the next moment, he sits down – at my stomach. A childish and very effective way to catch my attention.

"Ggg!" I gasp, and try to force some air down into my emptied lungs.

He's heavy, to be so thin. My eyes are open now. I guess it was the shock. The impact just flicked them open. I may have some trouble with breathing, but I still have to fight down the urge to touch his sweet ass. He's so hot and good-looking that I can't possibly be dreaming. And then it's that physical aspect, too.

He's all black and blond, golden haired and leather clad, no news there. Blue eyed and enraged. Pale skin and red scar, and I, being the loyal follower I am, suddenly don't mind dying. He is so beautiful. Soft and warm. To not mention breathtaking, quite literally.

"Hey Mels," I say, and I sound really calm, to be so terrified and horny.

Praise me.

"What're you doing, dumbass?"

He leans over me, his face now so close I could kiss him if I wanted to. If I wanted to...? More like, if I had the guts.

When his eyes stare into mine, I get an odd feeling of him hiding something from me. A huge and important something. It lasts for a second, and then it passes, and I shake the thought of it the same moment it's gone.

I feel his breath over my skin, against my forehead, it makes me shiver. I wanna touch his shimmering hair. His skin is so smooth except for the scar, I wanna run my fingers down his cheek, I wanna kiss him. His lips are parted, as if he is gonna say something. His teeth are illogically white. Who decided that some people should be gifted in every aspect of life? And here I am, born loser.

Fuck, I wanna fuck him.

"Uh," I say, 'cause he looks like he's about to punch me. "I, well, uh..."

And then it occurs to me – I'm naked. Oh fuck. Damn... I have no clothes. I'm not dressed.

I can't possibly leave bed, I can't let him see that.

Fucking dumbass needs of my body. My stupid dick'll get me killed.

As if hearing my thoughts, he gets to his feet and says:

"Up. Matt."

He points to the floor and his tone is commanding. I think about telling him I'm not a dog but I'm really not in the mood to lie. I just shake my head violently.

No, no, no, no, you don't know what you're asking from me... big no-no. Not. Don't.

"What the fuck...?" he growls, not used to disobedience. "Get up!"

"N-no," I stutter.

This sucks. Happy now, fate?

He moves closer to me. He's angry. Oh please dear god (or whatever forces I'm supposed to rely on in crises like this one), let this be that bad dream. Despite it being awfully real.

"Up!"

This time, it's me he points to. One of his black nails that are probably capable to things more painful than scratching my poor eyes out almost touches my nose.

"No!" I scream.

That makes him frown. I barely ever raise my voice. I'm raised to be polite, unlike _some _of us.

At least I listened.

He's quiet for quite a long time. Then he says:

"Mail. Up."

Fuck my god, he used _that_ name. He is now very, very serious. It's official. This is the part where I either obey and only get hurt a little or get thrown out of the bed and likely into the wall, and also, probably out of the window.

I can only lie there and stare in horrified agitation.

I imagine my funeral, where he's the only one attending, in black as always, eating chocolate for no other reason than that that is what he does. And the inscription on my tombstone: Here lies Matt, the best gamer of all times, slain by Thee Sexy Blond.

That'd be something.

He called me Mail, that fantasy is no doubt what is to come.

"You asked for it," he says, and before I get a chance to respond with a slightly offended 'No, I didn't', he really does throw me out of bed.

One hand in my hair – he's so girlie – and one enclosed around my wrist, and he pulls me out of bed. Despite the pain his firm grip awakens in me I still have enough presence of mind to manage to keep holding on to the cover, I drag it to the floor with me. My landing fucking hurts.

"Ouch!" I scream.

He must've ripped some of my hair out or something, my scalp is hurting so much that that and my hip's contact with the floor is enough to fill my eyes with tears. I moan in an offended and very pained manner. But Mello doesn't care that I've probably broken something and will never be able to walk again, he's so cold hearted, and he simply grabs the cover and rips it off of me.

I get so red I could no doubt match my hair, I can feel that. I throw my arms around myself to try and shield my body from his eyes.

He stares with his mouth wide agape.

"Well, I," is the only thing I can say.

I think that explanation should be sufficient, but no, Mello still stares at me as if I'm from some other planet. Just to satisfy him I try to come up with some convincing lie, like 'This room was so hot yesterday', or 'A dog ate my clothes.' Well, maybe 'I ate my clothes.' But the words refuse to leave my mouth. They understand better than me what a crappy liar I am.

The floor is cold and I'm freezing, so after some minutes dying of shame and the stupidity of my life, I get up on all four to collect my clothes. No, the dog didn't eat them, you see. Mello still hasn't said anything. Him being so unusually quiet worries me.

He doesn't move to stop me, so I successfully make for the door out of his room carrying all my clothes in my arms. I wipe those tears, inflicted by that pain, off my burning cheeks and hope he doesn't notice my crying.

* * *

I spend the rest of the day in hiding. After having hurried to get dressed, I grab my gameboy in all haste and run to my hiding place. Well, since I only have the living room, that happens to be a nearby closet. Yeah, I'm sitting in a closet. I play my gameboy with the sound turned off and feel generally sorry for myself.

With 'nearby' I mean it's situated in the hall, so it's full of jackets and shoes and other nice things that you would just love to spend your day together with, mostly Mello's. I sit on a pair of my boots, which hurts my poor butt quite a bit, but I cannot move them because I'm afraid to make the least bit of noise. One of the blond supermodel's leatherjackets are hanging over my head and it smells, well, obviously, like leather. It smells, drum whirl, like Mello.

After a few hours of gaming as quietly as possible, it's getting boring even for me. I mean, I happily spend a whole day inside doing nothing but playing. If I know I can leave if I want to, and if I have the possibility to actually play more than one game. I've finished it by that time, of course, so my only entertainment would be to play it over again, and before I hid away here, I had finished it several times already. It's getting old. Didn't bring any extras...

And I also need something to distract myself with, 'cause that happening isn't really something I wanna think about. No. I successfully ban it from my head. If I don't think about it too much, I do not have to have that depressingly melodramatic feeling of my life being over.

I have heard Mello stumbling around in the apartment something like an hour back, but now it's quiet. I don't really know the time, didn't bring a watch with me, and even if I had, I wouldn't have known when I went into hiding, so the 'a few hours' is kinda roughly estimated. But the silence really doesn't mean anything, since I haven't heard him leave. It doesn't mean I dare leave my hiding place.

My ass really hurts and my back aches and my legs do too, since they have been folded for so long. I guess I shouldn't complain. I'm alive. And it was my own idea, and my own cowardice. But still, I'm getting impatient. Maybe I should just, I dunno, come out.

"Mail, this is ridiculous," I tell myself.

I speak to myself. That's kind of sad.

"Mail, Mello is probably angry with you," I continue.

I like it. I really need someone to talk to, and I'm alone, so I am the only choice I have.

"No shit?" I answer myself. "Why else do you think I'd be sitting here, stupid boy? Fuck you're so observant!"

When you're bored, you do weird things. It's true.

"What if he's left? Maybe you didn't hear him?" I suggest.

It's my brave part speaking.

"No, fuck, I'd hear him, it's not like he's discreet," my cowardly part replies.

"But you're not hearing him now, are you?"

"You've got a point." I nod. "I'm starting to think maybe we should..."

That's when the door is slammed open. Say hello to the irony of my life.

There is no doubt who it is. No one has entered; I would have heard. We don't have friends. And anyway, there's only one person in the whole world who can open a door like that.

I'm a genius, so my confused brain manages to gather all the facts in a matter of seconds.

I immediately thrust my arms over my head and scream:

"Please don't kill me!"

There is silence for so long, as if we are both holding our breaths (I know I'm holding mine at least), that I at last take the risk to open my eyes again. One first, then the other. I'm staring into the fabric on my own arms, they are blocking my sight. Still nothing happens. I then let my arms fall, one first, then the other. Still nothing happens.

Mello is standing there – yes, I was starting to doubt it was really him – and he looks at me, just looks, instead of screaming at me, which was to be expected, or strangling me, which I believe should have followed said screaming.

At first, I think that there is actual pain in his eyes, as if looking at me hurts him. But it goes away before I'm able to grip it and I tell myself I'm just imagining things in my horrified confusion. No, not pain. His sapphire eyes are gleaming with amusement. You ever thought the devil wasn't blond and feminine – look again. And suddenly, he bursts out laughing.

I blush and try to hide behind his jacket.

"Have you been sitting here all this time?" he finally manages to say, in between his laughter which has now seized to small chuckles, and when I have mistakingly dragged the jacket down over my head in my attempts at using it to cover under.

"Yeah," I mutter, peaking at him from underneath it.

"But... it has been something like five hours!" He shakes his head. "Why'd you do that? Fuck, I thought you were, like, out somewhere."

"Well, I had my gameboy!" I say, showing it to him, as if that is a acceptable reason for spending half a day in, yeah, a closet.

As mentioned, I don't have a watch. Besides, he scared me, so it's his fault! He doesn't seem to be consumed by guilt when he once again starts to laugh.

"You're hilarious!" he says. "No, I mean, you're fucking funny."

I don't laugh. Actually, whole this situation is so embarrassing, awkward and humiliating that I'd rather start crying. But I don't, thank god, I'd never hear the end of it. I do nothing.

My own fault. Note to self: gotta stop doing irrational things. I _could_ have gone out.

"Can you help me out?" I ask, relieved that he at least doesn't seem angry. "My legs hurt."

I don't know, maybe it's thanks to me making him laugh so much, but he kindly offers me his hand, with a smile which is depressingly close to a smirk. I take it, and he pulls me out of the closet. Of course I hit my head when I stagger out on weak legs, and I'm forced to lean against first the closet door and then the wall while waiting for the life to return to them.

"Uh," I say.

"Yeah, hell, you're weird!" Mello says cheerily.

That sick bastard. He's enjoying this.

Not that I wouldn't.

"What the hell were you doing?" Mello asks, while lending me a hand to help hold me steady.

He's so damn cute when he looks happy, I just can't help but to forgive him.

"What?" I wonder, as if I don't understand the question.

'Take it again, and slower.'

"Why were you sitting in a closet in our hallway?" he says helpfully. "Or more like, why the fuck were you lying in my bed naked?"

I make a face. That's something I'd prefer not to answer.

"Uh, yeah, like..." is what I say.

I can stand again, now, so I take a few steps away from him, rubbing my head, into the living room. Oh my god, a sofa! I hurry to sit down before Mello decides that the appropriate punishment would be five hours more in the closet.

He's cruel.

"Fuck, can you just answer the question?!" he exclaims angrily, and he follows me and throws himself down beside me.

He is so easily irritated, poor PMS girl. The heat of his body is like something concrete, it's seeping into me, making me painfully aware of how close he is. He's so fucking delicious I wanna eat him.

... oh yeah, I'm a predator.

He breaths out in a long sigh, as if trying to be patient with me.

I touch a bang of his hair when he has his gaze turned upwards, so that he won't notice. I can't help it. It's like putting food in front of a starving man, money in front of a poor man, Mello in front of a horny... wait, that would be this.

"Would you leave my fucking perfect hair alone?!" he scowls.

Oops, he did notice it. He grabs my hand and wriggles it away. He's in killer mode now; I can tell from the way he's trying to snap the bones in my hand. I whimper.

"I'm sorry!" I say pitifully. "I'm sorry! Please let go!" But he doesn't. "Okay, okay, listen, I'll answer, right? Just stop cutting of my blood circulation, if you please?" And now, he actually listens. He still doesn't let go, but he loosens his grip. "Okay. For the closet thing... I don't know. I was scared. And ashamed. I don't like going outside, but I didn't wanna stay with you, 'cause you're dangerous..."

He frowns. As if he didn't know I fear him. Everybody does. It's only natural.

"And...?" he asks.

"And what?" I reply stupidly.

"I had two questions, dumbass."

"Won't you let me take this my own pace?" I beg. His hand starts crushing mine again. "I take that as a no. Okay. Here goes... I was lonely."

A stupid answer, more sounding like I'm apologizing for some infidelity. But it's the only one I have, beside the obvious. The 'I'm in love with you and you were gone and I'm a sad excuse for a person so I just had to put my life on the line for no other reason than that I couldn't sleep.'

Okay, maybe not that obvious.

"You don't say, there's nobody else in the fucking apartment," Mello says. "So what the hell, sleeping in my bed made you feel less lonely?"

"...Yeah..." I silently answer.

He pierces me with those ice blue eyes. It feels like getting stabbed, though it's not all unpleasant.

"What have we said about respecting my privacy?" he grunts.

That's my Mello; sounds like a man, looks like a girl. Kills like a machine. Walks like a model. Smirks like the devil.

Dresses like a slut.

He gives me a totally random pat on the head, and if that's his intention, he does succeed in making me nervous.

"I'm sorry..." I say, and then, just to try and change the subject: "What were those business you were out on anyway?"

Like he would ever tell me.

"Don't change the subject," he snaps.

"I'm not!" I say, hurt by his lack of faith in me. Uh, no. But after having observed him out of the corner of my eye for a while, I decide that continuing my explanation is the best way to keep my poor body intact, and therefore say: "I couldn't sleep. Well, I missed you, so...," he raises an eyebrow, and then the words starts flowing out of me: "...I went to your bed, since it's better than mine, which isn't even a bed, 'cause it's a couch, and not a very comfortable one, which you probably know since we're sitting on it right now, which you also know, and I know that you know, so you can stop giving me that murderous look while I stop stating the obvious, but it is quite nice when you've been in a closet for some hours, and don't get me wrong, I like it, I'm not complaining about it or anything, but anyway, your bed is nicer and I really needed some sleep 'cause when I was awake all I could do was think of you since you're my best and only friend and I was worrying since you didn't tell me where you went and I just wanted to know you were alright but you didn't bring your cell not that I've touched it and you can really take care of yourself, I know, but it was night and I couldn't think straight not that I'm gay ha ha but you were so far away and your bed smelled nice you know like you and chocolate and your shampoo and you have very blue eyes did you know that? And I guess you'll kill me if you ever found out I was thinking of you while masturbating and oops I said it out..."

Mello, who has spent all this time staring at me and probably waiting for the right moment to hit me, winces as if woken from a dream.

"MATT!" he interrupts.

That's so impolite. Though it does give me a chance to catch my breath.

Fuck, please god say he didn't hear the last.

"...You did what thinking of me?"

Of course he did.

"Uh, nothing," I say.

The return of the Tomato Blush.

"You did what?" he says again.

Okay, a real man knows when he's conquered.

"I fucking touched myself inappropriately!" I shout.

'Happy now, Melanie?'

"...You were actually talking to yourself in that closet weren't you?" Mello doesn't wait for my reply; it's more of a statement than a question. "'Cause now I know you're fucking mad! I mean, I know I'm pretty as fucking hell, and yet..."

Though he looks more shocked than disturbed, which I believe to be a good sign. And he doesn't look angry now. He's gotten his answer, is he satisfied?

I've heard him say quite an amount of homophobic things, but that'd be together with people he had to look cool before; I don't know if he has actually meant anything of what he's uttered. And I think he has slept with guys, but I'm not really sure. Hey, love knows no boundaries, right?

That's a fine moral to teach stupid kids, but I kinda like it.

Still, it's me, his subordinate. He wouldn't take anything like this seriously from me, would he? I know he sees me as more of a servant than a friend. I don't care. I try not to.

'Please god turn back time, he just won't give this up now, will he? And if he starts laughing again, I might actually burst into tears, which would be so damn retarded and just make things worse...' I silently pray to that force I do not believe in, staring at the rosary around my Mello's neck. 'And if I burst into tears, he may realize that I'm not just horny and he's not just sexy to me and_ that_ would be so damn good for my social life, since it'd with all probability mean I'd lose the only friend I have, and he'd kick me out of this apartment and I'd have nowhere to live so I'd probably go with some weird street gang and get raped and have all my games stolen or starve to death because I'm refusing to sell them and that would fucking suck...'

"You get off on me?" he asks.

I wonder why. Isn't it obvious?

"Are you kidding me?" I say and laugh lamely. Is he serious? "Who doesn't? You're so fucking hot you'd make a homophobic monk wanna fuck you."

It's meant as a joke, mixed with a compliment, but I don't realize until I've said it just how stupid it sounds.

Mello's face turns a little bit red, as if that wasn't exactly the answer he had expected. Oh my god, he's blushing? Does it actually mean something to him?

It's so stupid, why does he care? Or maybe it's anger. That'd make a hell of a lot more sense.

Whatever the cause, his flushed cheeks are kind of cute. Not like me. I can imagine how ugly I must look.

"...thank you," he says.

Just like that, in a tone that, for this completely weird situation, is surprisingly normal. So he's not angry. I'd sense that.

He's not abusing me, but I do react to him like a wife getting beaten.

"Uh," I say and I, too, blush, shifting uneasily.

I wouldn't want to accidentally rape him on _my _couch. I'm gonna sleep here, after all. Wow, what a convenient time to be attracted to him. (That'd be always.)

"You know what?" I then say. "I'm sorry. I didn't wanna complicate things. I didn't mean, like, acting like an idiot." I don't look at him, I don't dare. "Let's just forget this ever happened, okay? Let's just... go back to normal."

There's the offer from the cowardly me. My brave part wants to smack him in the head.

Mello doesn't speak for so long, I don't know what to believe. When I sneak a peak at him out of the corner of my eye, he has an unreadable expression on his face. His grip around my hand is that of a normal handshake now, and his skin is even softer than I thought, and yep, it's possible. It's softer than his satin covers. As I've said I've barely ever touched him and it's better than imagined, far better! His skin is flawless. Like the petals of a white rose. It's not that I think he touches me of any other reason than that he's momentarily forgotten about it, but I don't want him to let go.

As I'm sitting there composing bad poetry about him he suddenly squeezes my hand, and I start and mutter something not even I know what it means. What did he do that for?

"What was your 'business', anyway?" I ask a second time, just to have something to say.

He makes me so nervous. What was that squeeze about? Why is he still holding my hand?

Why am I not dead yet? Why isn't he saying anything? Has he gone mute?

Am I the undisputed master of worrying and asking dumbass questions?

"None of yours," he says.

Apparently not mute, no. And he gives me a kind of vague smile, as if he's as confused as me, as if he, too, doesn't know what to do. But I must be mistaken. Mello never hesitates.

"I..." he says.

One word, one letter. There is a sadness in his eyes that I don't think I have ever seen before.

"So you think I'm hot," he says and this time sounds as if he's trying to make a joke, in spite of saying something else that is far more important, that he meant to word.

What is this? What is he getting at? He gives a weak laugh and I join him in his attempt to make this conversation more normal. When did talking to my best friend get so awkward?

What is this sudden seriousness? It suits none of us.

"Yeah, stupid huh?" I mutter, and I too try to sound like always, try to get back there, where we were before his unexplained absence caused me to take drastic measures.

If this is how it gets when you're being earnest, I don't want it. This is just uncomfortable.

But it's not only me. It's Mello, too. He's unhappy in some way, I can tell. Where was he? We sit there in silence and I ponder over what this means. And then, a ridiculous thought strikes me out of nowhere.

I know it's dumb to make an assumption, but I can't shake it.

It's that look on his face. Like his mask is broken and the falling pieces reveal a surprising content, my Mello's real features

Wait, is that fear? But it disappears the moment I think to have witnessed it.

"I saw you'd been through my stuff," he suddenly exclaims, and at first, I don't even get it.

Then I stiffen.

"Well, uh," I say, as always a master of words. "Uh, I was, like, cleaning 'cause... you know, I don't know..."

Though I'm scared again, it actually feels good to have something more present to worry about.

I'd rather get badly beaten up than sit here and wonder if this in someway means what I thought it to. Yes, I do think he could kill me. Be that as it may, I've never really seen death as something that really concerns me. Can't touch me, you know. I'm young.

"Don't be so afraid," he laughs.

What the hell is wrong with him today? He doesn't punish me for my disobedience, he doesn't even kill me a little and – scariest of all – that anxious laugh keeps on escaping his lips. It sounds like an apology, a way to tell me that he's sorry.

He was irritated in the beginning – yes, that would be Mello-irritation. It's considered anger for most people – but that was all. What is this?

"You're pretty," I say, 'cause my brain is malfunctioning and that's all I come up with.

I mean, 'pretty' do imply 'girlie'. I'm just testing my luck over and over, I'm practically begging for it.

"You are kind of cute yourself," Mello says. My face must be priceless, given his laugh and my own feelings, and he adds: "Yeah, really. I fucking mean it. You know I don't say things otherwise."

Did he just say I was cute? Is he going blind, is that the thing? First mute, then blind, poor bastard ... wait, is this a dream anyhow? Maybe he's just happy because he now knows he has the ultimate power? ... No, wait, he doesn't know that. He knows I'm attracted to him, nothing more.

He _does _know I love him, but not in that way.

Is he guilt ridden? Is that it? My brain keeps coming up with all these theories and I can't prove none of them.

I, who have gone cocky from all this getting away with stuff that usually would have killed me, decide that I'm cold and move closer to him. He could be on fire, that's how hot he is. I even lean against his shoulder, because I need it, because I think he needs it, because things can't get more weird than they already are. He looks at me like 'Hell, you've got some nerve,' but the smile doesn't vanish, so I suppose I'll survive this one.

"I'll let you," he says, and there it is again.

Maybe he met with someone on his little journey that told him about animal rights?

"Where were you?" I ask.

I can't leave that one alone. I have to know. Don't I have the right? But he doesn't answer.

Instead, the next thing he says bewilders me to no end. It is:

"Do you wanna fuck me?"

Yes it is! Did I hear him right?! But yes, I did. He can't possibly mean... (no he can't idiot why would he?) that he wants to fuck me? Or that he would fuck me, because of his guilt or whatever that is? Is he mocking me?

The latter, no doubt. I don't know how to respond to it.

"Hello, you've gone fucking brain dead or what?" He pokes my shoulder.

Hard, in his usual way. You tell him to give you a massage and he beats the crap out of you.

"Why do you ask?" I come up with, to myself thinking it's a very intelligent question, though I'd much rather shriek 'OH MY GOD YOU WANNA??? OF COURSE I WANT! HERE AND NOW?'

"Why not?" he smirks.

We're beginning to sound like ourselves now. I like it. It's much better.

"That's a fucking stupid reply," I comment.

"That's a fucking stupid question."

Abruptly, he grabs me by the shoulders and violently forces me to turn towards him. He looks straight into my eyes and I can't read nothing in his – it's like he's closed down, he's shut the curtains – and I can only remember one time before when I've seen him look this way, and that was the moment before he shot a man in the face. I freeze, suddenly terrified, even though I do know what he'll do, what he's after, and I can tell from his smile that he knows I know, a moment before he kisses me. He kisses me, he kisses me hard and hooray, there's tongue! The horny, primitive part of me cheers, and it forces the rational part of my mind, the scared and suspicious part that are now quite sure about the thing I'm suspecting, to surrender into the sensation of his hard and hungry lips. He tastes – well, duh – of chocolate, but there's also something else, like copper, like blood, like he's bleeding into my mouth, dripping red in between my widely parted lips. I don't want the kiss or whatever it is – wait, are we making out? - to ever end so I embrace him, try to hold him so he won't be able to break out of it, but he doesn't like it, he growls or whatever, I can't hear it since I'm breathing so fucking hard, and he presses me down, he gets me on my back, that's so like him to wanna top. And fuck, I don't get anything, is this really my Mello? And he touches me, ah, his hands slide under my striped shirt in that graceful manner of his, his fingers move over my skin in an intricate and complicated dance. And when we part I stay on my back and he looks down at me and I say, in a weak, out of breath whisper:

"Could I get you some chocolate, master?"

He laughs. His laugh is so cute, despite that dark madness in him, despite his unrefined beauty, it really is cute, a word that doesn't seem to match him in anyway. He is the prettiest killer I know. A fallen angel, celestial, and diabolical.

He can torture me and have me dying and I'll love him with my last breath.

"You horny?" he breaths in my ear, it tickles, and it makes me shiver.

It's like we exist in two universes, two parallel dimensions; the usual one, where we say those things, where everything is, if not normal, at least acceptable. The one where we can laugh and make jokes and where this is nothing but foreplay, because he feels like it, and because I've always wanted him. And the other one, the dark one, the one were he's the drops of blood staining me, and he is doing this to apologize for unspeakable things that has somehow been revealed to him, that he knows will happen. Where I do this because I love him and where he does this because he, in his own way, must love me.

The one where dumb jokes and insinuations at sex are as unimportant as they are corny, misplaced. It makes me feel as if we shouldn't speak.

Yet we do, 'cause it's too tragic to acknowledge that other dimension's existence.

Or maybe all that abstract shit is just me.

"Oh, if you were a prostitute, you'd be a millionaire!" I moan.

It's a compliment, but he doesn't look flattered.

"Wha..." he begins saying.

"In a good way!" I interrupt.

I use my elbows to lift myself up to his face, so I can kiss him, stop this talk we're having, because this is so holy and yet we're misusing it. He pushes me down again, his fingers through my hair, he's far from gentle, but it doesn't matter. He kisses my neck and he licks my ear, and I groan. In the back of my head, I still wonder over his ulterior motives – I wasn't number three at Wammy's 'cause I was so stupid I trusted people, and especially not Mello – although my body is out of my control now, it's acting on its own, so me being suspicious doesn't really mean anything.

He's hardening against me and I tear at his clothes, I want them off of him, I've actually never seen him naked and I've got to do something about that. His leather clad body is literally all over me, and his fucking golden hair tickles and his black nails are scratching me – meow – they're tearing bits and parts out of me and that's fine. His rosary falls down on my neck when he leans forward, and it's so cold it makes me gasp.

Amen.

Though I guess God would not approve of this.

"I love you," I whimper, I can't help it, if I'm lucky, he can't hear me.

It's like I've hit him in the face. He not only freezes, but visibly jerks backwards. I'm never lucky. I do expect to see surprise, maybe disgust, maybe actual resentment on his face, but what I don't expect, is the look of pure horror he gives me.

"You do what?" he asks, sounding dazed.

I feel small. When you're lying underneath your ten times stronger best friend, who is stunningly beautiful, and just've told him your incomprehensible feelings, you feel insignificant.

And I don't understand that fear; am I so awful?

I try to avoid getting all hurt and teary eyed, but it's impossible. And with the hurt, comes the frustration.

"Are you fucking deaf?!" I yell, like he wouldn't be so close I can feel him breathing. "Yeah, I love you, and I've done it for fucking ever! You are so fucking perfect it hurts to look at you, and what I just said is so fucking corny I'd have to love you to say it!"

My voice breaks at the last part, it's so goddamn pathetic.

"...You scream much today," he silently notes.

"It's not my fault dumb ass Roger never thought us how to handle our feelings," I mutter, gasping for air, I try to hold back a sob, turn my head away from him to avoid looking into his eyes.

He's quiet. He strokes my cheek as if he doesn't really know what he is doing, or maybe he simply doesn't care.

The physical aspects of my body are catching up with me now and I notice how his nails have left my skin aching, fuck, I even think I'm bleeding somewhere.

Then, he climbs off of me and gets to his feet. His hair is such a mess: I don't remember doing that.

"I'm gonna go to sleep now," he says.

Is it night already? I sit up to look out the window. Yes it is. When did this happened? When did it get so dark? How can the sun go down without me noticing it?

Why isn't he saying anything that means something?

I suddenly realize how awfully hungry I am, I'm starved, and it hits me just like that, though it feels like it doesn't make sense to crave food in a situation like this.

He leaves me, without further ado, with a lame wave and a stupid:

"Goodnight," and it feels so wrong.

Oh great, I ruined it all. I've loved him from afar for so long, I could have done it longer, but no, no no no, retarded _fucking_ Matt has got to reveal the feelings he harbors, 'cause otherwise, life would be way too easy. I had to believe in my own, dark fears, the ones that told me it was now or never. My unproved theory of why this even happened.

Just had to go and make it complicated.

This is why I only have one friend, and he'll probably despise me now.

I stagger out into the kitchen to find something eatable and eat it, although it's green which symbolizes vegetables (Eow I hate vegetables, why did Mello buy that? Or was it actually here when we moved in?) and although I feel sick and want to run to the bathroom and throw up and cry at my own reflection because I only need to see myself to be sure of the fact that no one can ever love me, it's so fucking stupid, so goddamn utterly unintelligent of me to ever think something else that the only thing I can do about my belief of something bigger is laugh.

I should be nominated for the 'best confidence and most cheerful lifestyle of the year'- award.

* * *

My endeavor to fall asleep is in vain. I lie awake and stare up into the ceiling. Wow, my insomnia is getting to be as bad as L's. And my stomach hurts; perhaps that weird thing I ate wasn't good for me? And I was actually bleeding, I saw that when I finally went out into the bathroom to stare accusingly at myself for being so utterly stupid.

Mello has barricaded himself inside his room and hasn't come out. I mean, he do get like that, I've experienced it before. He's so emotional nervousness can turn him into a wreck, and I know he doesn't like me seeing him that way, so he usually locks himself in. But only, this time, it's my fault. I. Did. It. I move my gaze from the ceiling to his door and smile inwardly. Not because I find this funny but because this is all so ironic. Now _he's _the one hiding away from _me._

This has been a hell of a weird day. I don't really wanna think about it – I can't say this is my proudest moment, given how I've been acting like an idiot the whole time – but I can't avoid it totally, since this motionless sleeplessness of mine gives me nothing to do but think.

I wonder if he's asleep. Hopefully, he'll forget it over the night, and tomorrow, he'll act as if nothing's happened. He always gets more affected than me momentarily, but in the same way, he forgets so much quicker. Must be nice.

Not much _did _happen, anyway. I mean, we were kissing for no apparent reason (at least not from his side) and I said a thing that scared him of in all its sincerity, and that's all.

Now, thinking back at it, it's hard to revive my fear of that groundless realization, as hard as it is to recall that sadness and that guilt that I thought were staining his eyes. From where did I get that, anyway? I just suddenly decided that he was sad and that that meant something fatal for us, or for me, or for him, I don't know, but I automatically came to the conclusion that a danger was threatening us, something bigger and fouler than what we've had to fight before, something like Kira. And that he knew this. If he did, wouldn't he tell me?

But to that, I can only chuckle. My reasoning may be illogical and rash, but there is no way to determine whether there's some truth behind it from what Mello tells me. He'd lie about pretty much anything, I'm sure. I can't trust him to calm my irrational fears. I can't ask him.

I was just making things up, anyway. Must have been. He was just horny or the like, or teasing me, yeah, that'd have to be it. It wasn't real. It wasn't important. And it sure as hell wasn't implying any hazards towards my lazy ass life. Talk about exaggerating.

I want a sandwich or something – that is not a vegetable – and when I lastly drift off to sleep, I don't dream of my eternal obsession the Bitch Queen, but of a meal that doesn't make my stomach cramp.

* * *

I have a nightmare. I don't remember it afterwards, but I know something bad must have happened in it, because when I wake up, it is with the vague idea that my chest should hurt all over.

It's a sound that wakes me. A really high pitched one, which make my skin crawl and have me sitting up before I'm really conscious, like some strange reflex it has me straightening up in my bed while I'm still half asleep.

I blink. The sound has silenced by now, and I'm so tired and it's so quiet I start to doubt I even heard it. I shake my poor head, all dizzy by the sudden movement I just performed. I usually try to avoid moving something bigger than a finger within half an hour of waking up: this has shocked my body.

But the chills running through it doesn't entirely relate to that sound. It's that.... dream. What did it mean?

I wearily consider lying down again, but now, it hits me. The sound... it was a scream. Yeah, so now I know that.

More importantly: was it Mello's scream?

I throw the blanket I sleep under off of me and firmly set my feet down on the floor. It's so cold to touch I wince, and when I hurriedly rise and start towards Mello's door, I am hit by the ridiculous image of me walking on ice. It's actual pain, it turns my feet all numb.

But I'm a real hero, so I just curse a little and clench my teeth while I bravely make my way over the floor. I might squeak a little, too, and maybe call Mello a few names for making me do this, but otherwise, I'm quiet, stoic and heroic.

"Mels?" I knock on the wood separating our rooms.

Not that this is my room. It's a living room. I am just lucky for being allowed to stay here.

"MATT!"

Mello's voice, in an outburst that scares the hell out of me. I push the door open so violently it makes a loud bang when it hits the wall and burst in.

The lamp beside Mello's bed is lit, so I can see the whole scene. He's obviously stayed up reading (did he, too, have trouble sleeping?) 'cause beside the unmade bed is some cheap porn magazine and a half eaten bar of chocolate. Judging by how the cover is thrown to the side and is spilling down on the floor, Mello has jumped out of the bed in a haste. And he's left his chocolate. That's not a good sign.

He is standing on a chair up against the wall, dressed in plain, black boxers and nothing more – oh, yum - and when I enter, he immediately starts screaming: "My chocolate! Matt, save my fucking chocolate!" as he points to the floor and jumps up and down until I'm afraid he might accidentally flip the chair over.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I wonder, not the least bit sleepy now.

Wait... this seems familiar. Yes. I've been through something like this before. It must be...

"Oh no," I say. "Was it a mouse again?"

Mello blushes. After a few moments of silence, he nods.

He can look someone straight into the eye and shoot them without a second's hesitation, and he's been in enough filthy, run down places to give the impression that he's seen enough mice not to be afraid of them, but... hey, here we are. The big bad mafia leader is afraid of small rodents.

I kinda enjoy seeing him like that, in my own, sick way. I mean, there's not much stuff that scare him. But he's so vulnerable once scared, like a kid, a broken child, tossed aside by everything, loved by no one. Not that I love _that,_ I'm not that sick, it only makes me feel like I'm closer to the real Mello.

What is it that makes Mello so tragic? Sometimes, I doubt he can ever be hurt. And others, it's like he's bleeding all over the place.

"But it's so creepy!" he defends himself, still the panic audible in his voice, though it has decreased. "Please fucking save my chocolate, I don't want the mouse to eat it!"

_Please fucking_? I think. And I add: _only Mello._

"You probably scared him off," I say, but obediently walk over and pick the bar up of the floor. "Give it to me!" Mello gestures wildly, attempting to make me up my pace. "Give it to me, hurry up, you slow motherfucker!"

When I reach him – yes, I slowed down those last steps, it was vengeance, I finally slept and then he woke me up, such horrible manners – he wrestles his precious candy out of my grip and hugs it to his bare chest.

The scar from the explosion continues from his face, it is streaming down his left side disturbing the smoothness of the pale, pale skin, standing out in its whiteness, like there is something buried underneath the surface, only visible as those threads entangled in an everlasting dance. He has the body of an athlete, and yet it's so thin, it makes you wonder why the muscles don't show more.

Not that it matters. He's deadly sex personified from every possible angle.

The unfairness of it strikes me again. How could one be given so many good qualities? And yes, fuck yes, I'm jealous.

Though it'd totally wear me out to be so fucking complicated.

He mumbles something along the lines of: 'Oh poor little one, were you scared?' as he pats his bar with the caring tenderness of a mother holding a baby.

"My god, say you did _not _wake me from my sleep so I could watch you get hysterical over a mouse and caress something that isn't alive," I mutter, silently, of course, and he doesn't show any sign of hearing me.

After comforting his chocolate, he reaches for me and places a hand on my shoulder. His fingers are warm, and I start when they make contact with my skin.

"What...?" I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral.

Being touched by Mello is undoubtedly the only think that could ever make me religious.

Pater, peccavi. Father, I have sinned.

"Carry me," he begs.

Well, begs and begs, he knows I'll do it, but he's polite enough to pretend he doesn't. I'm stupefied.

Why the hell would he wanna...?

Doesn't he understand that ten times is enough confusing me for one day?

"Come on," he says. Not that pleading now.

This is the 'I even told you nicely. Fucking obey.'

"The mouse is not here anymore," I point out, guessing this is what makes him unwilling to step down onto the floor.

I have a memory of me telling him a ghost story of ghost mice biting people's toes. Is that it?

That was back at Wammy's, the birthplace of Mello and Matt. That's where Mihael and Mail went to have their childhood destroyed and their persons altered. That's the fucking reason we are here now and I worry about dying.

"I still can't sleep in my bed!" he exclaims, making it sound like I'm stupid for not realizing that. "It might be under the fucking bed and... stop your fucking giggling! It's so gay!"

_Well, I am gay, sweetheart. Fabulously gay._ But I don't feel like reminding him. Instead, I step closer to him, so he can put his arms around my neck. I don't really know how to hold him – am I strong enough? - and in the end, I decide to go with the classical 'movie hero carries the weak slutty damsel to safety' – grip. I try to ignore the feeling of all blood going down south (except the blood heading for my cheeks and painting me all pretty red) and lift him carefully from his escape chair. His skin bare, my skin bare, touching. I gasp from it and hope he thinks it's the lifting.

He's easier to carry than to have on top of me, even though he seems determined to strangle me by hugging me oh so tight.

"Mels," I wheeze.

"Yeah?" he asks in blissful ignorance.

"Can you..." *cough *, "please... let me breath?"

"Sure," he agrees, but doesn't loosen his grip.

So I just have to do this quick before I pass out. I walk faster and by now, I've begun to feel his weight, my poor untrained back is breaking (I'd never say it, he'd cry and scream that I called him fat and then he'd kill me), and I finally reach the door that I left open, breathing ridiculously hard. And voila, while trying to get us both through the doorway at the same time, I succeed in banging his head in the door post.

"Fuck!" he shouts and turns like a restless snake in my arms.

A heavy, big snake.

I almost drop him, and to avoid doing it, I'm forced to change my grip. And oops, one of my hands grabs... yes, that's his ass. I did so not do that on purpose.

"Gah, fuck, hands off!" Mello screams and before I know what's happening, my head jerks and my jaw hurts like hell – he's kicked me in it, in the fucking head, from that angle, damn all L's capoeira crap, damn Mello always wanting to be like his big idol- and it hurts hurts _hurts_ and I drop him out of pure pained surprise.

"Fuck you fucker!" he shouts – by then, he's already hit the floor, with a loud, finalizing thump. "What the hell's with you?!"

I just stare at him in dumb confusion. When it catches up with me, I immediately start apologizing:

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, really, really sorry, I didn't do it on purpose, are you alright? I hope you're okay, it wasn't my meaning, you just shocked me is all, not that it's your fault but..."

He gives me a piercing glare, the sort that could set anything on fire.

I turn silent.

"You talk too much," he snares and gets up from the floor, rubbing his behind, must have hurt it in the impact.

Maybe I should see to that.

"I'm sorry," I whisper unhappily.

Of all clumsy, idiotic friends he had to make...

"Yeah, fuck!" he growls, and then, without anymore warnings, he slaps me.

Not hard, it's just a fucking slap, but it still hurts more than that kick in the head. I back away and I try to keep my eyes from filling up with hot, hot tears.

He makes his way over to my couch on his own, and lies down in his usual manner, that falling backwards, 'I don't care'- style, and drags my blanket over himself, curling up underneath it. He's still glaring at me. It's obvious that he doesn't know how much his hand hurt my cheek, to which extent that slap tore me open.

Why am I so sensitive? Should be used to it by now. Should stop being such a pussy.

I fight it down and tighten my shoulders, grit my teeth. Hold it back. Hold it back. Or more like; erase it.

He turns his head away from me. I'm thankful; wouldn't want him seeing my weakness. Would be very shameful. Am already deemed as worthless enough.

"I'm sorry," he says.

That's... unusual. No, that's unheard of. I just stare at him, stunned, flabbergasted.

"I told you to carry me," Mello keeps on going, "so when you dropped me, it wasn't your fault. Fuck. I could have gone by foot."

"But you were scared," I insert, in a small, anxious voice.

"There is nothing I don't fear," Mello answers darkly, and I hate what we are doing all over again, the lines we're crossing.

_Don't back there... I don't wanna go back there._

He doesn't fear anything, right? Of course not. It's Mello with the fierce eyes, the undying fury, and the murderous intent. He doesn't back down.

But does that have to mean he doesn't fear?

"I'm scared, too," I say, feeling like I have to tell him, that he needs to know.

The tension has gone out of my systems by now, and I can let myself relax, I breath it out in a long, tired sigh. It's in the middle of the night, but I'm not sleepy. Sleepy was driven out of me when I heard my friend call my name in fear.

"Fuck!" Mello growls, turning on my normal sleeping place, the piece of furniture he is now occupying. "I hate this... shit. Fuck!"

And he goes on, in more, more colorful words, describing everything that's shitty about this world from this apartment til Kira and his own, goddamn mother who made the mistake of letting him into this world, and then went and died.

"Uh, where should I sleep?" I wonder quietly, afraid to bother him in his pointless cursing, but eager to get away from here, out of this room and this sensation of being in the middle of a very real nightmare.

There it is again, the suspicion.

"Fuck if I know!" he snaps. "Fuck, can't you think for yourself for just one moment?!"

"Uh, can I take your bed, then?" I ask, a little insulted.

I thought he preferred me not thinking for myself. Fucking inconstant drama queen.

"No!"

"Wha...why not?" I whine.

I don't wanna sleep on the floor. Again. I've done it twice, when he was pissed at me. It was my punishment.

I must be a goddamn masochist staying with him.

"So can I sleep with you?" I ask.

It just slips out of me. When did I get so rude?

Who is complaining about who's manners?

"No!" he says. "What kind of slut do you take me for?"

"Uh, I didn't mean it like that," I mutter and blush.

Mello hasn't looked up at me since he apologized, but now, he lifts his head and rewards me with a somewhat sad smile. It makes me wanna run. _I don't want to know_. He looks like he wants to tell. _I don't want to know. _

"The couch is too small, we can't sleep here both of us," he says instead, that's what he decides. "Now, hush! Go away!"

There's no sadness in his voice, just annoyance. Is it only me, or are we both going quite schizo in here?

"But, I," I protest, impressively verbal. "I, then where?...Besides, I wouldn't wanna sleep with you..." When seeing how much that upsets him, I hastily add: "'Cause you'd laugh at me!"

"Why?" he frowns.

Oh, yeah, I did say I wanted, before. Heat of battle, no doubt.

I look down at my feet. They have never before been so interesting. And I brought this up because?... aw, right, I'm a fucking masochist.

"Because I'm a virgin," I tell the floor and my incredibly fascinating feet.

"No?!" Mello's shout makes me look up, involuntary. His light blue eyes are fixed at me in disbelief. "A virgin? Fuck I thought they were extinct!" And in a lower, calmer manner: "That's fucking sad."

"What, 's that weird?" I mutter. "Yeah, for some reason no one decided to jump me when I sat inside at Wammy's or here and did generally lack a life and played games and were antisocial and no one even knew of my existence. Quite the turn on, eh?" I really do try to suppress the bitterness in my tone, painfully aware of the blame being none other's but mine, and say more cheerfully (faked, but still.): "Besides, even if they did, they'd know I was your bitch, and you're too fucking scary, no one'd dare."

He cocks his head to one side and stares up at me.

"...Okay, you can sleep here," he says.

"I can?" I stupidly ask.

Mello laughs harshly.

"Fuck, you called yourself my bitch! You deserve something for that."

I slowly walk over to him, nervous that he might change his mind, and he doesn't close his eyes until I'm standing at his feet. At his feet... that's my favorite position. But when I'm there, his eyelids flicks shut and he opens his mouth to drag the air in with a deep, weary breath, and as he breathes it out again, I move to his side.

He was right when he stated we couldn't both fit here. I don't know what to do. I'd love to lie down, only there's no room left for me to lie on.

"Don't just stand there," Mello mutters. "Come on."

He moves a little, turns over on his side and presses his slim body against the back of the couch. Makes place for me. He has his face turned towards me, but he doesn't reopen his eyes. I want to let him sleep. He looks so tired. I want those features of his captured by that peace he's only given in sweet, sweet blissfulness.

I hesitatingly sit down with my back turned to him, then tip over at my side, slowly fall until I'm lying, let my legs hang out over the side of the couch while pressing the back of my body against him, my body that fits so well into his, it's like we were shaped to be together (oh fuck yeah, I'm aware of exactly how _that_ sounds), and I feel him against me like warmth and reality, he's the only one keeping me from thinking I'm gonna wake up any minute now. It's unreal, to be here and to touch him in this way, but at the same time, it's the one and only aspect of this night that doesn't feel like a dream. I could never imagine this, anyway. I would be too damn scared to dare – he'd kill me if I had such fantasies about him.

And he would find out, 'cause he's Mello.

This is too good to not be true.

Like he hasn't shocked me enough for twenty years (not that we'll live that long) by behaving in a completely uncharacteristic manner, he chooses that second to slide his arms around my waist. He does it with a security I don't own, he hugs me tightly from behind in a way that tells about a confidence I don't have. I wouldn't dare. I get so overwhelmed by this, I let out a gasping sob, or a moan, or both. That he's actually touching me, freely, again... it makes me remember that kiss he gave me, and the moment right before it, when I knew that he would plant it on my lips.

_What the fuck?_ But I think it with a stupid grin plastered to my face.

I don't know if he loves me as much as I love him (I seriously doubt that, could another soul so depressingly lonely and so pathetic really exist in the world? Nah, that's an impossibility), but he does this to me. There has got to be some love in that action.

This is enough. I've officially died and gone to heaven. Mello is too angelic for us to still be on earth, the only things he misses is that halo and a harp to play melodic music on. Though I'd really prefer if he didn't do that, given how late it is. I'm tired. And our neighbors already hate us.

(It isn't my fault that Mello behaves badly. I may not have social skills, but at least I don't bother people. It's Mello who stays up all night just to throw very loud tantrums. One lady actually offered to go shoot that 'Near' he was screaming at, if that would make him shut up.)

"Aren't you gonna ask again?" Mello suddenly says, out of nowhere.

And here I'm lying in the silent hope that he could finally get some sleep. But nope.

His breath in my neck chases shivers down my spine, how the fuck is someone that sexy able to live without touching himself constantly?

"What?" I mutter, not sure of what he's meaning.

Ask what?

"Where I were." He sighs a little. "I would tell you."

No way. He's got to be kidding me. He'd tell me? Since when?

"Where were you?" I ask anyway, 'cause if that's what my master wants, then fine.

I could rebel in my thoughts when he's ten miles away, but when he's around, I'm helpless. I hate it. I love it. I'm the slave. I'm the dog. I'm on my bruised, aching knees.

'I'll kiss your feet, Mello dear, all you have to do is ask.'

I can't put the entire blame on him, though. I'm choosing to bend, because it's easy. Fuck, it's a hell of a lot simpler just doing what others tell you than having a will of your own. It's comfortable to follow orders. We've had enough wars in human history to know that.

Besides, he deserves it. Perfection walking must be worshiped. Losers like me should be glad if they have the privilege of getting whipped by the only god they serve.

"I didn't go anywhere," Mello whispers, his voice concealing whatever there might be behind those words behind a wall of indifference. "I sat at room in this very city and there I did nothing... but thinking things over, I just thought about everything... about you... until I thought my head was gonna split in half. I needed to get away from you. I needed to... I... I am very sorry."

But his tone is still expressionless. Not that I don't believe him. He wouldn't lie about something like that. It neither adds to his questionable masculinity nor makes him look like the winner he wishes to be.

If he admits a weakness, it's the unalterable truth.

_Oh Mello, don't you know there is a place in which you'll never lose? In my eyes, you're always the winner._

"Don't be," I say.

It feels weird to speak to him this way. It's feelings we're discussing. We don't do that.

It's dark truths we're revealing. We definitely, especially don't do that.

And Mello is a pressure at my back, a body I never thought that I would ever touch in the way of a lover. He isn't done talking:

"What would you do... if I commanded you something... and you knew the outcome would be fatal?"

That hesitation, those pauses he makes. He feels guilty, yes. He does this to repay me, that's the touch and the sleeping next to me, that's the kindness and the kisses. I smirk at his question. Doesn't he know?

"Consider it done," I reply ironically.

Not because I wouldn't do it, but because it's stupid of him to ask.

My Mello. I don't wanna look at him. After all, I've been adding numbers in a terrifying equation all day long, even when I slept I dreamed about it. And here it is, the solution, as clear as day. It's spelled with four letters and it's not unexpected. I always knew I'd never live to grow old. And he wants to drag it into the light, I can tell. He wants me to know what I've already figured out.

And like he reads my thoughts, the warm figure pressed against me, my connection with reality, with heaven, and lastly, with hell, says those words I do not wish to hear, in a small and trembling voice, Mello the Great and German is afraid when he speaks this to me:

"I think we're gonna die."

One sentence. Five words. Eighteen words. A hundred of unsubstantial fears come true.

I love him. I will follow. _Lead me, emperor, and I'll go with you into oblivion. _I have but one answer:

"I know."

**The end.**

**And that was it! Wow. I didn't wanna drag it out more^^. Am quite happy with this piece (it's my longest fic, and also the one I've worked through the most.) I know it's... well, rather meaningless and incoherent at some parts. And aaangsty^^. Still, I hope you enjoyed, and please review if you want to:)!**

**I love them. I seriously, seriously do. They'll die next year T.T! (... talk about going ahead of time....-.-!) Anyway, thanks so much for reading! **


End file.
